


The Omen

by kissedbydragonfire



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Florena, Hallucinations, Inspired by Poetry, Lorynn, Poetry, Spooky, completely different from anything else I've done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:09:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27033208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissedbydragonfire/pseuds/kissedbydragonfire
Summary: Based on "The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe.Flynn has an unsettling encounter with an unexpected visitor one night. {Takes place in S1 at the beginning of the Red Scare episode as he rests in the abandoned church he’s using as his hideout}.
Relationships: Garcia Flynn/Lorena Flynn
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7





	The Omen

**Author's Note:**

> *Note-some lines I totally stole right out of the poem because they worked, although most of it has been changed.
> 
> This is either absolutely brilliant or utter crack. I still can't decide. But I wanted to do something for Halloween and this is what popped into my twisted brain.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over a leather-bound volume; a tantalizing lure.

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of someone gently rapping, rapping at the church’s door.

“’Tis one of the men,” I muttered, “tapping at the church’s door.”

Only this and nothing more.

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,

And each separate memory wrought its ghost upon days of yore.

Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow,

From the journal refrain of sorrow-sorrow for my lost paramour.

For the rare and radiant woman whom the angels have heretofore,

Nameless _here_ for evermore.

And the stained-glass panels gleaming, from the moon’s uneasy beaming,

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before.

To face the agony of the broken beating, of my heart, I sit here grieving,

Not weeping aloud, yet shaken to my inner core.

’Tis some trick of the mind caused by the demons I abhor.

This is it and nothing more.

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer.

Lorena and Iris, truly your forgiveness I implore.

But the fact is I’ve been trying, to save the both of you from dying,

And I’ve sold my soul in search of the light I long to restore.

Blood and violence, in tortured silence, hasten me to go to war.

There is only darkness and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams I must confess that I deplore.

But the heartache was unbroken, and the loneliness my only token,

Yearning to spend time with them once more; my loves, whom I adore.

This wish I whispered, and an echo murmured back from the floor.

Merely this and nothing more.

Back inside a conscious slumber, spirits becoming unencumbered,

Soon again I heard a tapping, somewhat louder than before.

Surely, it must only be a timber, striking the glass lithe and limber.

Yet the words of my wife whisper; a mystery to explore.

A highly realistic hallucination, a haunting to endure.

’Tis the wind and nothing more!

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In stepped a stately specter of the saintly days of yore.

Not a kiss or embrace for me, nor a word of comfort uttered,

But with silent stealth of movement, perched above the church’s door.

Perched upon a statue of the blessed virgin just above the church’s door.

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

This beguiling beauty, normally so bewitching to my form,

But the grave and stern decorum of the expression that she wore,

Gave me great cause for concern and worry, my heart a firestorm.

Does she bear a more sinister reproach, or a warning I can’t ignore?

Perhaps a never-ending wave of guilt, crashing upon the shore.

Quoth Lorena “Whitmore.”

Much I wondered, this cryptic subject, so plainly stated without remorse.

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore.

For we cannot help agreeing, that no living human being,

Ever yet was blessed with seeing, his dead’s wife spectral tour.

Now a phantom or a vision, oracle of derision, which I now must inure.

With such a strange message as “Whitmore.”

Yet the apparition, sitting lonely on its partition, never once stuttered.

One word was all that was spoken; her soul in that one word she did outpour.

Nothing further then she uttered, and my heartbeat barely fluttered,

Not a word or syllable muttered, only repeating her prior uproar.

I renew my request for a clue, a hint, something I can explore.

Then the specter said “Whitmore.”

Startled at the stillness broken, by reply so aptly spoken,

“What about her?” said I, “the relevancy of your message, I implore.

Perhaps the pastor should inquire, to the almighty about this quagmire.

Clearly an answer is what I desire, though I do not possess the rapport.

For God has surely abandoned me, and this I know for sure.”

“Whit-Whitmore.”

But Lorena, still beguiling, all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I knelt beneath the vision, mirage and/or demon, on the floor.

Then upon my stomach sinking, I began the process of linking,

Clue upon clue; thinking about this portentous ghost of yore,

What my beautiful, bewitching, alluring, and spectral wife has in store.

What she meant in croaking, “Whitmore.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing,

To the woman whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core.

This and more I sat divining, with my eyes kept in hiding,

From the phantom lingering above the church’s door.

Praying, pleading, even begging, another word of lore.

For I shall press, ah, evermore!

Then, I thought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer,

Swung by demons, committing treason, aided by their sinister corps.

“Wretch,” I cried, “the devil has lent thee; with these fiends he has sent thee,

To torture me without respite, from the memory of my amour.

Leave! Away with you, temptress and captor!”

Quoth Lorena, “Whitmore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “be plain in your meaning, no longer be trite.”

Your message vexes me like some prophecy from foreign shore.

Desolate and barren, in the depths of darkness my soul delights.

Undaunted and undeterred, I beseech you, truly, I implore—

Is there— _is_ there an omen in your retort, a warning you’re here for?”

Quoth Lorena, “Whitmore.”

“Specter,” said I, “love of my life, mother of my child!”

Neither heaven nor hell can escape from my explore.

Tell this soul with sorrow burdened, if the fates are so determined,

What message this harbinger has harkened; what doom I should not ignore;

What truth this half-wanted visitor brings me, a blessing or something more?

Quoth Lorena, “Whitmore.”

"Is my fiery pilot ally or foe, or has jealousy tainted thee?

Answer me, or take thee back to the blackness far beyond the shore!

Leave no perfume, no remnant lurking beneath my core.

Leave my loneliness unbroken. Quit your perch above my door!

Take thy knife from my heart, and take thy form away,” I swore!

Quoth Lorena, “Whitmore.”

And the phantom, never budging, still is sitting ever judging,

Perched upon a sacred statue just above the church’s door.

And my rage is all but steaming, with the fury of a demon screaming,

A tortured soul, searching, yearning, shackled by guilt from days of yore.

Fading mist, a shadow of self, is all that’s left of the woman I adore.

Her last word an enigma, _forever more_.


End file.
